The good news is that the phoebes have fledged and gone. Same, too, by the way, with the chickadees in the bluebird box. (And I have to say, even if I’m saying it again, that the chickadee nest is a real improvement on the bluebird nest; the top layer is all soft, downy stuff, a marvel of comfy.)

So all is good, except that I’m left with one large copperhead somewhere very near the house. Now the copperhead is not an aggressive snake. When disturbed, according to the experts, it would rather “beat a dignified retreat” than get all riled up. On the other hand, copperheads, like many other snakes, tend to stir at night, and Dede and I sometimes stir at night, too–like to go out by the garden and dump the compost. And since one good way to get bit by a copperhead is to step on it, I’d just as soon not have the damn thing as a boarder.

Still, I like snakes, and I’m a live-and-let-live kind of guy. Just how live-and-let-live? Well, in fact, I faced this exact situation last summer–a copperhead on the premises. I had seen it–almost stepped on it–while cutting the grass. Then, a few days later, I was on the front porch and looked down into the landscaped area just below. There it was, asleep in the sun, curled over on itself like a bow-tie. Of course I could dispatch it–have at it with my machete, blast it with my shotgun–but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Instead, I went into the garage and got our snap-on-lid trashcan and my long-handled spade. Banking on the copperhead’s reputation for lethargy, I slid the shovel under the snake, picked it up, and dropped it in the trashcan–pretty much all in one swoop. I don’t think it even woke up until it hit the bottom, and by then I had slapped the lid down tight. I put the trashcan in the back of the truck, drove a half-mile up the road (to a stretch where nobody lives), and let the snake go. It still seemed unperturbed by the whole affair.

I expect that, given the opportunity, I’ll do the same thing again this summer. If I don’t step on it first.

(Next time: back to birds–the one and only good reason to play golf.)